Read our current issue, below. Read Light‘s poems of the week
by James Hamby
The audio was silent,
No camera could be found,
They say that Spicey spoke;
But did he make a sound?
Most questions were not answered,
And some were met with lies—
He vanished in a huff,
But this was no surprise.
Just like the empty forest
Where trees decay and fall,
If no one’s there to hear it,
Did it occur at all?
by Edmund Conti
We’re going to win the South,
Starting with the Peach State.
The Carolinas also—
Followed up with each state.
We are the new-look Dems.
We kicked out every Hippy.
We’re coming, Alabama.
Hello, y’all, Mississippi.
We’re going to win Nebraska
And states we used to cry over:
And others that we fly over.
We’re going to end the losing
To GOP/Trump mania.
We’ll add the Red and keep the Blue.
Oops, there goes Pennsylvania.
by Alfred Nicol
Remember when James Dean was all the rage?
The silent type, the awkward dinner guest.
Young people filled the cinemas, in thrall
to the rebel looking sideways at them all,
who spent his whole life going through a stage,
unable to get something off his chest.
But better him than this guy on the screen,
whose little eyes get lost behind his cheeks,
a would-be actor looking out of place,
still practicing to make an angry face,
who’s only memorized a single scene
and mouths the same lines every time he speaks.